


I Drive Your Truck

by thegrouch314



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:18:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2346572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrouch314/pseuds/thegrouch314
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha gets the news she's always dreaded; Clint's gone and he's not coming back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Drive Your Truck

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by a song by Lee Brice which it takes it's name from. You can find the song here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCSMCgqlc-0

Fury called Natasha and Coulson into his office. They sat down as he stared out of the window, not acknowledging their presence. After a few minutes of silence which none of them felt particularly inclined to break, he turned.  
‘It’s Barton.’ He started. Natasha looked up from her lap at the mention of her partners’ name. He’d been deep undercover for the two months prior, which meant no contact.  
‘He’s gone missing. We have no idea where he is but we have nothing to indicate he’s alive. I’m sorry.’ And for once, Fury sounded it. ‘He was a good agent, we’ll miss him.’

Fury turned back to the window, clearly dismissing them without a word. The other two rose in time and turned to leave. As they reached the door, Fury spoke once more, softly. ‘Take all the time you need. You’ve both been given three weeks compassionate leave but I can extend that if need be.’

They went their separate ways in the corridor. Coulson turned to his office, locking the door behind him. He crossed the room to the couch and lay down, breathing in the smell of Clint, ingrained from all those times he’d slept there after a mission, filthy and exhausted, needing someone to watch his back so he could rest, still wound up from the tension of the mission. He lay down and tried to process the fact that Clint was gone. His best agent, and possibly his best friend. He tried to accept the fact that never again would he have to deal with Clint’s antics in the field; the singing over the comms, the getting himself in too far without waiting for backup, his propensity for launching himself off tall buildings and trusting in his teammates to catch him. Never again would he have to deal with Clint failing to turn in reports without weeks of nagging, shooting arrows into the TV’s off button to save getting up and breaking into his office after missions to sleep on his couch.  
He took one final deep breath and got up to start on the paperwork that losing an agent in the field necessitated.

 

Natasha headed to the gym. The junior agents, upon seeing her face, cleared out sharpish. They’d learnt the hard way that when she looked like that, she wanted to spar and Clint was the only one brave or foolish enough to survive getting into the ring. Looks like she’ll need to find a new sparring partner now. She cast a longing took at the ring, remembering the way Clint could always keep up with her. Every time a mission went awry and things got a bit too close for comfort, he’d be waiting for her, lounging against the ropes with a goofy grin on his face, ready. She’d step up and they’d fight for hours, until every muscle ached and bruises were blossoming and they were both too tired to reflect on any fuck ups. They’d invariably end up in one of their quarters’, a bottle of vodka and an icepack apiece. Clint would insist on some dumb move to distract them and she’d agree, mostly to shut him up, and they’d fall asleep in front of it. Even exhausted, they trusted each other to keep them safe as they slept.  
There was nothing romantic, or even sexual, about them sharing a bed. It was a habit born from being on the run, never knowing when someone would come out of the woodwork to kill you. Once they’d found someone they could trust, they exploited that in order to get a decent nights sleep.

She turned from the ring and settle into the punching bag, each swing an attempt to distract her from the memories of him.

 

It was two weeks before Natasha plucked up the courage to leave the relative safety of the SHIELD headquarters. Although every corner reminded her of him, there were enough distractions to keep her occupied. She worked until she could barely stand, sometimes going three or four days without sleeping because every time she lay down, there he was. She washed all of her bedding, but no amount of detergent could erase the memories of waking up with his hair all over the place and his goofy grin, calling her Russia when she hit him, making fun of her bedhead. She let him because he always bought her a coffee. Eventually though Hill got sick of the sight of her roaming the corridors, scaring the new recruits and ordered her off site for at least 24 hours.  
She lifted the keys to Hill’s car from her (locked) desk drawer and drove without thinking. She turned her mind off and focused only on the road ahead. It was two days and more cups of gas station coffee than could possibly be healthy that she realised where her subconscious had taken her. Clints safe house. He had a lot of them around the world but this one was always his favourite. She’d only been there once, after a mission had gone astray thanks to some bad intel, but she remembered the way.  
It was tucked away in the middle of nowhere, not even a dirt road for miles around. A well provided water and a pair of solar panels the power. He’d built it himself, she remembered him saying. A little two up, two down farm house. She shut off the engine, not bothering to lock the doors as she walked tentatively to the front door and pushed it open. Clint had been so confident in how difficult this place was to find that he didn’t lock the front door when he wasn't there. On the inside, however, were half a dozen bolts screwed securely into the three inch deep timber. The only time he needed to secure it was when he was there.

She cleared the house more out of habit than any perceived threat then headed to the kitchen. Setting the kettle on the stove filled with water out of the well, she started to rifle through the cabinets in search of coffee. Instead what she found amongst the MREs and energy bars make her eyes prickle. Stuck to a box of her favourite tea was an envelope. Written in Clint’s familiar chicken scratch handwriting was a single word; Russia.

She sat on his worn leather couch, tea in hand, and opened it.

Tasha  
I guess this means I didn’t make it. That’s the only reason you’d be in my safe house without me. I’m sorry, I guess. I hope you made it out alive. You must have done, I suppose, to be reading this. Unless it’s Stark. In which case, fuck off, Tin Man. This is personal.

Natasha smiled, memories of all the times Stark and Clint butted heads over the kitchen table in Stark Tower, invariably getting resolved with Clint getting a new set of arrowheads and leaving Tony’s ducts alone for a day or so.

I don’t have any next of kin, so I’m leaving everything to you. I don’t have much by the way of material possessions except my safe houses and my weapons. I don’t care what you do with the houses, sell them for all I care. Same for the guns but I do ask one thing. Keep my bows. Clean them regularly and fire them once in a while. They need it to keep the string supple. You and Coulson can split the contents of my bank account, or donate it. Whatever. I don’t need it.  
I want to be buried here, under the old oak tree in the yard. I want to become part o that tree when I’m gone, become strong and wise and have the birds perch in my branches. Maybe it’s soppy and shit but I don’t care. I’m dead. You’re not allowed to mock me any more. Something to do with speaking ill of the dead. You’ve all got to be nice about me now.

Tasha, I’m sorry for leaving you. Remember that time in Istanbul where I promise I’d always have your back? Guess I broke that promise, huh. In a way I’m glad it’s me. I couldn’t have cope wit losing you. You always were the strong one. I guess Budapest proved that. I never regretted bringing you in. it was the best decision I ever made.

Phil’s letter is stuck to the coffee. If he’s not with you, can you give it to him? I can’t stand the idea of leaving without saying goodbye.

I’m sorry Tasha. I love you. Goodbye.

Natasha rubbed her eyes, suddenly exhausted by the wave of emotion Clint’s letter had brought on. She dragged herself up the rickety wooden stairs and into his bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. She toed off her boots, checked the gun he kept under the pillow, curled up under his blankets and slept. 

She rose with the sun, shining bright through the window. After a brief shower she looked through he drawers, hoping Clint had left clothes there. Somehow, she wasn’t really surprised to find a couple of sets of clothes in her size. He always thought of things like that. Grabbing the sneakers he left her, she ran. She ran for hours with the sun beating down on her back, taking in the views and trying to sort through the mess of emotions running through her. She couldn’t just shut them out like she’d been trained to do, not for Clint. He deserved more than that. He deserved to be mourned. The world should miss him, even if it was just her and Coulson. Someone had to remember him and all the great things he’d done. He deserved medals and statues and stories told about him. He’d love that. He always was a show off when he was out of the field. He always justified it by claiming it was a trait left over from his carnie days but she knew better than that. He was just a part of who he was, his charm.

She eventually returned to the house, soaked in sweat, muscles burning. Grabbing a glass of water, she made her way to the little shower. God only knows how, but Clint had plumbed it so there was always hot water. She stood under the spray and looked at Clint’s body wash, debating whether or not to use it. Could she handle having his smell all around her? In the end she decided against it, trusting in the water to get her clean enough. She dressed swiftly and headed out into his yard.

Parked in the shade of the big oak tree was Clint’s truck, the rust showing through the dark blue paint job, showing its age. He loved that truck. It was one of his few possessions that wasn’t purely practical. He ran the risk of taking it with him sometimes, switching the plates obviously. More than a few times she’d come outside of whatever damn hole they were staying in to find him with his head under the hood, tinkering. He’d be covered in grease and filth, humming some old country song under his breath. He’d look up when she came over, his eyes glittering. He looked beautiful, she thought.  
Natasha smiled at the memories before opening the door and climbing into the drivers seat. She picked the lock on the glove box easily and retrieved the keys, noting the half drunk gatorade in the shotgun seat left over from an old mission. There was a pile of coins in the ashtray, various denominations from various countries. They always had foreign change on them. It seemed to get everywhere.  
She took a moment to let it all wash over her before pulling away.

Windows down, radio up, she drove. It was the closest she’d felt to him since Fury told her the news. As the stereo played that old country song he used to love, she could almost feel him in the shotgun seat, feet up on the dash, singing along. God he had a good voice on him, smooth and rich. He’d have his head back, eyes shut, arm out the window. She reached over, turning it up with a smile and wondered when it had started to hurt less; when thinking of him started to make her feel fond, rather than the hollow ache of loss. she could just imagine him punching her gently in the arm as the tears started to roll. Natasha didn’t cry, couldn’t remember the last time she had but now, for the first time since losing him, she sobbed. This was Clint’s truck. He’d had it forever and hadn’t left it behind yet. In some ways, she felt like he still hadn’t.

 

Natasha drove Clint’s truck home. She’d driven Hill’s to the nearest highway and arranged for SHIELD to pick it up. Fury gave her a half-arsed ticking off but cut her a bit of slack before telling her she had a mission. With Coulson.  
‘Wheels up in 25, Agent. Dismissed.’

Natasha went back to her quarters to pack and remembered about Coulson’s letter. She tucked it into the pocket of her uniform before heading to the plane. She took the seat next to him and handed it over without saying a word. Coulson shot her a look before looking down at the envelope. Seeing Clint’s handwriting his palms began to sweat. He kept up his usual calm façade as he opened the letter although he wanted nothing more than to break down then and there.

Phil

Thanks. For everything.

‘Well, he always was short and sweet.’ Coulson said, looking up at Natasha.  
‘Funny, I don’t really remember the sweet.’ She replied, smiling softly at him.

 

The mission ran exactly to plan, a simple in and out. The comms were eerily quiet without Clint’s chatter, calling out attackers or simply filling the silence. As Natasha and Coulson awaited extraction is a dingy hotel room, they found themselves talking about him.

‘Remember that time he jumped off the Willis Tower without looking?’  
‘Vividly. Good job Thor was around. Remember how hard it was to get him to wear his guards on the range?’  
‘Don’t. I fought him for weeks over that. What about him shooting out Stark’s light bulbs from across the street because he wouldn’t let Clint have the last piece of pizza?’

 

Three hours and a bottle of vodka they’d found in the medicine cabinet later the extraction arrived to find the two of them on the couch, tears running down their cheeks.  
‘Sir? Ma’am? Is everything okay? Are you hurt?’ the Agent asked, concern bleeding through.  
‘We’re fine, thank you Michaels.’ Coulson replied, transforming seamlessly back to his usual professional self. ‘We were remembering Barton.’  
‘He saved my life once you know?’ Michaels told them. ‘I’d been captured. He shot through the ropes that were holding me and didn’t even nick me before killing my captors. He was a good man. I’m sorry for your loss.’

 

They held a memorial for him a few days later, up on the roof. They had a small fire burning in a bowl and it seemed like most of SHIELD had turned out to share stories about him. It seemed like in most of them he was either saving their life or winding them up. Natasha had pinned up one of the only pictures she had of him, one taken on a mission. He was sat on the Quinjet after a successful mission. Coulson had cracked a rare joke and she’d captured him mid laugh. Other people had provided their own. There was a photo of him in the cafeteria, juggling bread rolls. Another showed him swinging upside down by his knees from a vent wearing a skeleton costume. He’d been trying to scare the interns one Halloween. It worked; four of them quit on the spot, and two more after they stopped crying. Natasha’s favourite one, however, was one of the two of them sparring in the gym. They’d been going at it a while if the sheen of sweat was anything to go by but Clint was grinning, borderline maniacally and Natasha was laughing at him. She pocketed that one. Later that day, after everyone had left, she tucked it into the sun visor of his truck where she could glance at it as she drove.

Clint Barton was used as an example to SHIELD agents for years to come. He was a good man and a great agent. He saved the world with nothing but a bow and arrow, and his brain. Good men are rarely forgotten.


End file.
